ENCELADUS.
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nder Mount Etna he lies,It is slumber, it is not death;For he struggles at times to arise,And above him the lurid skiesAre hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast,The earth is heaped on his head;But the groans of his wild unrest,Though smothered and half suppressed,Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far awayAre watching with eager eyes;They talk together and say,"To-morrow, perhaps to-day,Enceladus will arise!" And the old gods, the austereOppressors in their strength,Stand aghast and white with fearAt the ominous sounds they hear,And tremble, and mutter, "At length!" Ah me! for the land that is sownWith the harvest of despair!Where the burning cinders, blownFrom the lips of the overthrownEnceladus, fill the air. Where ashes are heaped in driftsOver vineyard and field and town,Whenever he starts and liftsHis head through the blackened riftsOf the crags that keep him down. See, see! the red light shines!'Tis the glare of his awful eyes!And the storm-wind shouts through the pinesOf Alps and of Apennines,"Enceladus, arise!"
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